Godparents
by Alohaemora
Summary: Between the twelve Weasley-Potter children, it couldn't have been easy to pick all of those godparents.
1. Rose, James, Victoire, Fred, Molly

The first time, it was easy.

They chose their closest friends, their favorite cousins, and the siblings they'd been just _that_ much closer to, growing up. There were a few mild surprises, a few minor disagreements, but, for the most part, the decisions that were made were fairly straightforward.

_31 July 1998_

_Rose Monica Weasley_

_James Sirius Potter_

It was nearly midnight. The Burrow was dark and silent against the outline of the moon in the darkening sky.

"Merlin's beard, Harry!" Ron's scandalized whisper echoed down the Burrow's otherwise empty front yard. "You really didn't hold back, did you?"

Harry grinned at his friend. Then, he plunked himself down in front of the garden shed, gesturing for Ron to join him. A six-bottle crate of Ogden's finest was propped open on the grass by his feet.

"It's my eighteenth," Harry reasoned, picking up a bottle and flicking the cap off with his thumb. It fizzled for a moment, before subsiding. "I think we deserve a treat."

Ron snorted, but did not object. Sitting cross-legged on the overgrown lawn opposite his best friend, Ron too popped open a bottle of Firewhiskey and raised it.

"To being alive," he said quietly.

Harry's smile faded slightly, but he nodded, following suit. "To being alive."

He took an enormous gulp of the beverage, but ended up inhaling half of it up his nose. Coughing and spluttering, Harry keeled forward onto the grass.

When he looked up, Ron was shaking with laughter. "You defeat the darkest wizard of all time, no problem," Ron said in amusement. "But when it comes to drinking a bottle of Ogden's…"

"Stuff it," Harry said hoarsely. Straightening, he took another, more careful sip of Firewhiskey, and Ron grinned.

"Happy birthday to Harry Potter," Ron said warmly, thumping his friend on the back. "Savior of the Wizarding World, the Boy Who Lived, and, _most_ importantly, godfather to my first child."

"Thanks, mate," Harry beamed at him. Then, innocently, he added, "And I'm sure Ginny would agree to name you godfather to _our_ first child, too."

This time, Ron choked on his Firewhiskey, and Harry fell over, laughing.

_3 May 2000_

_Victoire Apolline Weasley_

"Thank you so much for 'elping out zis past two months, Charlie," Fleur said warmly, leaning up and kissing his cheek. "I don't know what Bill and I would 'ave done without you and Gabrielle. You two weel make wonderful godparents."

"Anytime, Fleur," Charlie grinned. "Sorry I have to leave so soon, but…well, the dragons aren't going to train themselves, are they?"

Fleur laughed, and Bill—who was standing next to her, holding a sleeping, one-day-old Victoire in his arms—rolled his eyes good-humoredly.

"We understand," said Fleur. "'Ave a safe journey."

"I will," Charlie promised, hitching his bag up his shoulder. After leaning down to kiss Victoire's tiny forehead, he straightened, smiling from Fleur to Bill. "I'll see you all at Christmas."

He was just about to leave, his hand on the front door, when, quite suddenly, Bill said, "Hang on a second, I'll walk you out."

Charlie turned, eyebrows raised. "You don't have to—" But Bill had already placed Victoire safely in her mother's arms and joined Charlie at the front door.

Charlie gazed at his elder brother for a moment. Then, shrugging, he swung open the door and walked into the cool freshness of an early-May morning, Bill at his heels.

For a moment, both were silent, as they made their way towards the cottage's front gate.

But, then— "You know, it's too bad you can't stay longer," Bill said quietly.

Charlie's pace slowed slightly, but he did not stop. "I wish I could, Bill," he said simply. "But like I said—"

"Yes, I know the dragons won't train themselves, Charlie," Bill interrupted, exhaling impatiently, and finally, Charlie stopped short in his tracks, crossing his arms. "But that doesn't mean _yo_u have to!"

Charlie glared at his elder brother. "Well, what do you propose I do, then?" he demanded. "It's my job, Bill! I'm not you, all right? I'm not ready to abandon everything I've been working on for the past ten years of my life and move back to England like a good, little boy!"

Bill opened his mouth to retaliate, but closed it again, a moment later. After a tense moment, during which the two brothers gazed at each other, expressions defiant, the pair turned around and continued the rest of walk to the garden gate in steely silence.

Finally, at the gate, Charlie turned around. A prickle of shame was gnawing at the back of his neck. "Look, Bill, I—"

"No—Charlie, you're right," Bill said gently. "I can't just expect you to move back here." He paused, biting his lip. "It's just…Gabrielle lives in France, you live in Romania—"

"Bill," Charlie interjected firmly, and the elder boy fell silent. "Listen, I could live in Antarctica and it wouldn't make me _any_ less of a godfather to Victoire—no, _listen_!" he said sharply, for Bill had started to protest. With a sigh, Bill quieted again, gazing expectantly at his younger brother.

With a deep breath, Charlie continued, "Bill, I'm going to be there for her, all right? I'm going to help her with everything I can, and—Romania, or not, I'm going to be so present that…she'll get sick of me!"

And, at long last, Bill grinned. "Unlikely," he conceded. "You're going to be the cool dragon-taming uncle from the mysterious land of the dragons, remember?"

Charlie burst out laughing. "Now you're getting it!" he exclaimed, clapping his brother's shoulder. "My bedtime stories are going to put yours to shame, Billy-boy."

_13 January 2004_

_Fred Lee Weasley_

"George, I'm heading home for the night," Lee announced, stifling a yawn behind his hand. "I don't want Alicia to have to get Nellie to sleep all by herself…" he trailed off, side-stepping a half-empty crate of Puking Pastilles as he approached the front door of the joke shop. Placing a hand around the doorknob, he glanced over his shoulder, frowning. "George? Did you hear me?"

Silence.

Frown melting into a grimace of uncertainty, Lee turned completely around. "George?" he called again. "Did you go upstairs already?"

More silence.

Shrugging, Lee pushed open the front door. He had one leg out the door when the sound came—a loud CRASH from the shop's basement. Stiffening, Lee ducked back into the building with wide eyes.

CRASH.

CRASH. CRASH. _CRASH_.

Quickly, Lee jogged to the basement staircase, drawing his wand, and taking the steps two and a time. Swinging around the corner, chest heaving, he saw George kneeling on the floor of the basement, hunched over five upset cardboard boxes of Canary Creams, shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

"George!" Lee's face drained of color as he bounded into the room and dropped to the floor beside his friend. With trembling fingers, he reached out and touched George's arm—but George shrugged it off roughly.

"Don't touch—!"

"George," Lee interrupted, his tone steelier. "George, _listen_ to me." And George froze, inhaling sharply. "It's the thirteenth of January," Lee said calmly, placing his hand on George's arm once again; this time, the latter didn't object. "We're sitting together in the basement of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, where you've just knocked over five boxes of perfectly good Canary Creams." Lee paused. "Now, are you going tell me what happened?"

There was a long, expectant silence, during which neither man moved a muscle.

Finally, several moments later, with a small cough, George straightened, eyes red and his posture still slightly unsteady. Lee stared at him. With a shaking finger, George reached out and pointed at the shipping label on one of the overturned Canary Creams boxes.

Lee leaned forward, frowning. It was a very old shipment, nearly seven years old, in fact. And right there, under the date, was a signature of verification—faded and weathered from years of dust and inactivity, but still very much apparent: _Fred Weasley_.

Lee looked up, eyes softening. But George was determinedly avoiding his gaze, leaning against the nearby wall and staring down at his hands.

"George," Lee began quietly.

"How am I going to do it, Lee?" George asked hoarsely. "How can I possibly be a—a father if I...if I _crack up_ every time it hits me?"

"George," Lee sighed.

"And we're planning on naming him after him, too!" George croaked, looking suddenly terrified. "Merlin's beard! Lee, what if I can't even _look_ at him—?"

"George Weasley, don't make me smack you," Lee interjected firmly. George immediately tried to argue, but Lee quelled him with a sharp look. "Listen—can I tell you something?"

George looked extremely reluctant, but— "Fine," he sighed.

"None of us," Lee said, gazing intently at George. "And I mean it when I say _none_ of us have a _clue_ what we're doing before we actually become fathers. Hell, it's been over a month for me and I still don't know what I'm doing!"

George stared at him.

"You're going to be fine," Lee said decisively. "Your little Freddie is going grow up and terrorize Hogwarts, like he was meant to."

George managed a slightly strangled laugh, shaking his head. "Angelina wanted to wait until after he was born to tell you this," he said, eyes sparkling. "But…we've actually decided to name our son Fred _Lee_ Weasley."

Lee blinked.

"After his godfather," George continued, now smiling broadly.

Lee's eyes widened. "George, that's—" he broke off, beaming. "It's an honor—thank you."

George grinned. "Now we've actually done it, haven't we? You as his godfather, me as his father…F-Fred as his name."

Lee laughed. "His fate is sealed, mate."

_31 December 2005_

_Molly Audrey Weasley_

Percy, George, Ron, and Harry were spending New Year's Eve in the very heavily crowded Leaky Cauldron. There were fifteen minutes until midnight, and the four of them were already on their seventh round of Firewhiskey.

Bill had opted out of the occasion; he and Fleur had taken Victoire and Dominique to France for the holidays. Meanwhile, Charlie had returned to Romania almost immediately after Christmas for a surprise assignment he'd received involving two terrifyingly violent Peruvian Vipertooths that had just recently arrived from South America. As a result, he hadn't been able to join the New Year's Eve celebration with his brothers and brother-in-law, either.

It had taken a great deal of convincing on Percy's, Ron's, and Harry's parts for their very, _very_ pregnant wives to set them loose for the evening. But the promise of a quiet New Year's celebration at the Burrow with Molly, Arthur, Angelina, and little James and Fred had eventually enticed them enough to agree.

And so, the evening found Ron, George, Harry, and Percy all slumped across a private booth in a slightly more secluded corner of the pub, laughing maniacally at a joke George had just told them about what happened when Draco Malfoy, a Grindylow, and a bottle of Amortentia walked into a bar together.

"George, can you please tell that one at my next birthday?" Ron asked, wiping tears of mirth from the corners of his eyes. "Dad would lose it!"

George grinned wickedly. "Now don't you worry your pretty little head, Ronnie-kins, I've already got a joke all picked out for your birthday," he said, a malicious glint in his eyes. Then, he pretended to scratch his chin toughtfully. "Actually, it's pretty much the same as the other one—except instead of the Grindylow, Draco Malfoy falls hopelessly in love with a tall, gangling, freckled ginger prat named Ronal—" He stopped short, ducking as a maroon-eared Ron threw a Firewhiskey cork at him. Percy and Harry roared with laughter.

"Hey!" called a familiar voice suddenly, and all four boys turned to see Neville Longbottom—pink-faced and glowing with excitement—approach them. "Can I get you all something more to drink?"

"We're good, Neville," George said, smiling. "Can't go home too drunk, or our wives might disown us, y'know."

Neville chuckled. "All right," he said. "Just holler if you need anything. Countdown starts in ten."

"Thanks, Nev," Ron grinned. "Say hello to Hannah for us!"

"Yeah, give her a good kiss for me," George winked, earning him an elbow in the ribs from Ron.

"And good luck with the pregnancy, mate!" Harry chimed in, punching Neville's shoulder affectionately.

"You, too, Harry!" Neville waved happily as he sped off.

"Hey, Perce," Ron said suddenly, as though something had just occurred to him. The other three turned to him. "Have you and Audrey decided on godparents yet?"

Percy froze. "We—" he hesitated, glancing from one expectant face to the next. "Yeah...yeah, we have."

There was a pregnant pause.

Then— "Oh," George said mildly. "Well, who?"

"Er—" Percy bit his lip. "It's Hestia Jones and..." He sighed, averting his gaze. "Zacharias Smith."

Several things seemed to happen at once. Ron spat out a mouthful of Firewhiskey, colliding violently with George's shoulder. This, in turn, caused George to swallow too much of _his_ drink; he ended up choking so severely that Harry had to whack him repeatedly on the back.

It was several moments before any of the boys found themselves able to speak again.

Finally, it was Harry who said, tone disbelieving, "Percy, you _must_ be joking."

Percy blushed a vivid red, bristling. "Harry, it wasn't my idea—"

"Was it Audrey's?" Ron blurted out, looking positively beside himself. "Look, Perce, I know they're cousins, but you've got to be reasonable—"

"That boy was a prick to us in school, mate," George snapped, eyes glinting.

Percy sighed. "I know, but—"

"You weren't there at those Quidditch matches when he commentated," Ron interrupted furiously. "If you'd just _heard_ the things he said about our family, Perce, you wouldn't—"

"Ron, for the last time, it wasn't my idea!" Percy bellowed, standing up suddenly and glaring fiercely down at his brothers and Harry. They all quieted, almost instantaneously. Then, taking a deep, calming breath, he continued, "Look, I wasn't on board with this idea either—I'm still not entirely," he added, eyeing Ron sharply. The latter's eyes had widened at use of past tense.

With a sigh, Percy sat back down at the booth, running a hand over his short hair. "But I agreed to it," he said simply. "Because Audrey loves him, and because he loves Audrey...and because I know that even if he is one of the biggest pricks in the entire Wizarding World, if something were ever to happen to me and Audrey, I'd be leaving my daughter in the care of a bloke that I know will raise her well. I mean, you've met his son, haven't you? Cedric is practically a saint."

There was a long silence, during which Ron, Harry, and George gazed at Percy, evidently stunned.

Then, suddenly, Ron's eyes widened. "Wait—_daughter_?" he yelped, mouth falling open. "It's a girl!"

Percy's mouth fell open. Then, he clapped his hands over his eyes, groaning. "Don't tell Audrey I told you—she'll murder me! It was supposed to be a surp—"

"Percy!" George looked, if possible, more shocked than Ron. "Why, you sneaky, little wart! I can't believe you never told us—blimey, a _girl_—congratulations!"

"_All right, occupants of the Leaky Cauldron, it's time to ring in the new year_!" Neville's voice boomed from the bar, where he was standing with a pregnant but utterly jubilant Hannah.

Shouts of glee and surprise emanated from the table of four, as Harry, Ron, and George leaped to their feet and pulled Percy into a tight hug that he was absolutely unable to escape.

_"10...9...8...7...6..."_

George was now loudly telling a joke about what happened when Percy Weasley, Zacharias Smith, and a bottle of Amortentia walked into a bar.

_"5...4...3...2...1..."_

Percy clung helplessly to his brothers and Harry, as they formed a senseless mass of tangled limbs and hysterical laughter.

"_Happy new year_!" Neville's voice reverberated through the extremely noisy pub.

"Happy new year!" echoed Harry, Percy, George, and Ron, as they raised their Firewhiskey bottles together in a kind of drunken salute, still laughing uncontrollably.


	2. Dominique, Albus, Hugo, Roxanne, Lucy

The second time, it became harder.

They'd exhausted their top choices, their "go-to" candidates. The second time, they had to sit down and truly analyze the potential impact their selected godparents would have on the child in question.

Because for many, their second child was their last one.

_20 December 2002_

_Dominique Gabrielle Weasley_

There was a sharp rap on Kingsley Shacklebolt's office door, causing the Minister for Magic to jump slightly in his seat and stare around. Rubbing his eyes and stifling a yawn, he called hoarsely, "Come in!"

The door clicked open and a pair of familiar, startlingly blue eyes peered through the door.

"I thought I heard a rumor you were in the Ministry this afternoon," Kingsley said, beaming, as he rose from his desk. "I didn't know whether to believe it."

Bill Weasley laughed, sidling through the office door and nudging it shut with his hip. "You make it seem like I never visit you."

But Kingsley was no longer listening to his friend. His eyes were transfixed by the fluff of white blankets in Bill's arms. The smallest hint of strawberry-blonde peachfuzz hair was protruding from the bundle.

"Merlin's beard—_Bill_," Kingsley said slowly, still gazing at the blankets in astonishment.

"This is Dominique," Bill chuckled. "Fleur went into labor three-and-a-half weeks early. I missed the birth myself, actually...I only got back from Egypt yester—" he broke off.

Kingsley had stepped forward suddenly and caught Bill in a firm hug. Bill froze in surprise; then, gently shifting his daughter into a more comfortable position, he reached out his free arm and drew it around Kingsley's broad shoulders.

It was several moments before they broke apart. As they did, Bill noticed that Kingsley's eyes were slightly brighter than they usually were; Bill tactfully lowered his gaze. But when Kingsley spoke, it was with the same low, stirring voice that had led so many Order meetings; that had shouted at Bill for letting Mad-Eye die; that had apologized fervently for missing his wedding; that had yelled out a warning just in time for Bill to dodge a particularly speedy jet of green light during the Battle of Hogwarts:

"May I hold her, Bill?"

"Of course." Bill smiled, nodding, as he stepped forward and gently tucked his soundly sleeping, four-day-old daughter into the Minister for Magic's outstretched arms. "You _are_ her godfather, after all."

Kingsley drew in a sharp breath, eyes latching suddenly onto Bill's. And in that one exchange of glances, a torrent of emotions channeled through; shock, amazement, guilt, happiness, delight, gratitude flitted by, morphing together, entangling intricately, glowing fiercely in the air.

Then, Kingsley gave a stiff nod, and Bill laughed, clapping his friend's shoulder.

_18 May 2006_

_Albus Severus Potter_

"'Bin wonderin' when yeh were goin' ter come by for a visit."

Harry smiled, turning around. He could recognize that voice anywhere.

"Hi, Hagrid, how are you?"

Hagrid chuckled, his enormous fuzzy beard bristling into a smile. "Bin all righ'," he said, dropping down to his knees next to Harry where the latter was sitting, cross-legged, in front of the familiar shimmering white tomb. "Minerva an' Sprout said I'd find yeh out here."

"Did they?" Harry asked mildly, moving over slightly on the grass to give Hagrid room to stretch his large legs.

"Yeh know, yeh and Ginny must be the firs' people in centuries ter have a baby here," Hagrid said thoughtfully. "Since St. Mungo's came aroun', even Hogwarts professors haven' attempted it."

Harry laughed. "We didn't plan it this way, I swear."

"Guess he was jus' a little too eager to get out, wasn' he?"

Harry laughed again, shaking his head. "Guess so."

A comfortable silence fell over the two men, as they gazed up at the large tomb. In the bright May afternoon sunlight, the clefts and crevices from years of weathering, rain and snow were accentuated slightly. And in the midst of it all, a deep crack seemed to overpower the rest, running from one end of the marble to the other—as though it had been purposely broken, and then mended. Harry stared at it.

Hagrid cleared his throat. Then, gruffly, he said, "It was brave of yeh and Ginny ter name him 'Albus Severus.' After everything…it couldn' have bin easy fer yeh."

Harry shrugged. "It seemed…right, you know?" He paused. "I wouldn't be alive right now if it weren't for the both of them."

Hagrid sniffed loudly, and Harry glanced at him, surprised.

"Yeh don' know, Harry," Hagrid said thickly, swiping at his eyes with his dustbin lid-sized hands. "I know yeh had ter fake it to get us outta there alive. But when I saw you, lyin' there at…at _his_ feet, I couldn' believe it. I thought I was dreamin'."

Harry averted his gaze from Hagrid's, feeling an all-too-familiar knot of guilt twisting in his stomach. He and Hagrid had never spoken about that night before. "I'm sorry, Hagrid."

"Now, don' yeh apologize for anythin'," Hagrid croaked. "Yeh're the reason we're all alive righ' now—don't you forget it."

Harry stared at the tomb, biting his lip.

"I'm proud of yeh, Harry," Hagrid continued, sniffling. "Not jus' fer the war, but—everything. Yeh've turned inter a great man. James and Albus—and Ginny too, o' course—are lucky ter have yeh."

Suddenly—and he didn't know what made him do it, Harry scrambled forward and hugged Hagrid. He could have been eleven again, clutching the larger man's wrist as they made their way through the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley for the first time; or thirteen, pouring over books with Ron and Hermione about animal execution; or sixteen, visiting Hagrid's Hut with Ron after Quidditch practice and chipping his teeth on rock cakes.

"Thanks for everything, Hagrid," Harry said quietly, as he finally pulled away from Hagrid's rib-breaking grip, several moments later.

Hagrid gave him a watery smile. "Is Ginny all rested up?" he asked, pulling out his tablecloth-sized handkerchief from his cloak. "I was hopin' to see Albus before yeh all left. Neville was ravin' about his new godson in the staff quarters all mornin'."

Harry threw his head back, laughing. "Sounds like Neville."

Hagrid shook his head. "Still can' believe he's the same boy who could barely stand a cauldron right-side-up in his firs' year."

"Tell me about it," Harry chuckled. Then, in as innocent a voice as he could muster, he continued, "Er—did Neville happen to tell you about Albus' other godfather?"

Hagrid scratched his beard, frowning confusedly. "Other godfather?"

"Well," Harry said calmly. "Ginny and I were talking yesterday, and we decided that with a name like Albus Severus, _one_ godfather really isn't going to be enough to protect him from all the questions and whispers when he gets to Hogwarts..."

"Harry," Hagrid looked dumbfounded. "Yeh—yeh aren' sayin' what I think yeh're sayin, are yeh?"

Harry beamed. "What do you say, Hagrid? Are you up for it?"

Harry had seen Hagrid cry dozens and dozens of times. In fact, he'd seen Hagrid cry more than he'd seen Ginny, or even Hermione, cry. But in that moment, as the two of them stood together in the dazzling afternoon glow, it was Harry who found himself blinking back tears at the astounded expression on his old friend's face.

_28 October 2007_

_Hugo Ronald Weasley_

Minerva McGonagall was having a terrible morning.

_It was one of those days_, she thought irritably, as she blew her runny nose into her tartan handkerchief and gazed out the window of her office. She was horribly ill. She felt horribly old. And she was beginning to horribly miss being Headmistress. Her first year of retirement was not shaping up to be quite what she had hoped…

_Pull yourself together, Minerva_, she chided, shaking her head—partially out of frustration, and partially to clear out her ears, which had blocked up in the most irritating way. After all, Pomona had been so kind to her. She was letting Minerva live in the castle, scot-free. And she was younger, stronger…she _deserved_ to be Headmistress, after everything…

Groaning, Minerva begin furiously rubbing her eyes which had suddenly started watering. But as she did so, her favorite tartan handkerchief slipped out of her fingers and fell squarely into the nearby fireplace. Minerva watched it hiss and scorch in silence. Then, without a word, she dropped her head to her palms.

She couldn't find in herself either the energy or the willpower to summon it from the flames.

"Minerva?"

Minerva blinked, raising her head. In the doorframe, she could just barely make out the bleary outline of—_Ronald Weasley_?

"Ronald?" she asked hoarsely.

"Is—is this a bad time?" Ron asked quietly. "I can come back later if—"

"No!" Minerva interrupted immediately, and she hoped it didn't sound too much like she was begging. "Please, sit down."

Ron took a seat on the armchair next to Minerva's—the one that Pomona usually occupied, on the rare occasion that she found the time, Minerva noted, with a pang of sadness.

Suddenly— "Hermione had the baby," Ron blurted out.

Minerva's gaze latched onto Ron's, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. She suddenly felt very selfish, brooding alone in her office. She hadn't even bothered to check her calendar—Hermione _had_ told her that her due date would be in late-October.

"I—_congratulations_!" Minerva managed, still rather disoriented by the suddenness of the news. "Boy or girl?"

"Boy," Ron smiled briefly. "We…we've named him 'Hugo,' after Hermione's father."

"That's lovely," Minerva smiled, and Ron returned it—but Minerva immediately knew that something was wrong. There was something just slightly too forced about Ron's grin. It looked off-kilter, in the most disturbing way.

Minerva frowned. "Ron, what's the matter?"

Ron's eyes widened. "What are you—?"

"Weasley, I taught you for six, long, unforgettable years," Minerva said sharply. "I think I can tell when you're hiding something. Now, out with it."

Ron opened and closed his mouth several times in succession, almost comically; Minerva almost chuckled. Then, with a deep breath, he began, "We weren't always planning on naming him 'Hugo.' In fact, until the day before yesterday, we'd been set on 'Henry.'"

Minerva frowned; she was beginning to get a bad feeling.

Ron's voice had begun to shake. "Then, five minutes before she went into labor, H-Hermione got a phone call f-from her mother, saying that her father had d-died in his sleep. See, h-he had lung cancer, and he was really weak, but the doctors had promised him four more months."

Minerva's chin trembled. Ron was refusing to meet her gaze.

"I've never seen her scream like that," Ron said in a low voice. "_Never_—not even when she was being tortured. I could barely get her to St. Mungo's; she couldn't even stand. She cried the whole way—didn't even stop to breathe. I-I w-was w-w-worried that she w-wouldn't b-be able to—" he broke off, trembling.

"Merlin's beard, Ron," Minerva breathed, shaking her head. Ron was hunched over in his seat, shoulders quaking violently.

And then, despite her own illness—despite her own discomfort, and frustration, and a million-odd other reasons—Minerva pulled herself to her feet, removed her thick cloak from her shoulders, and drew it around Ron's.

He looked up, surprised, but accepted it.

Minerva sat back down in her armchair and stared sternly across the little coffee table at Ron. "Listen to me, Ron. I've know you—and Hermione—for a long time. She's one of the bravest women I've ever met. She'll get through this, I promise."

Ron exhaled slowly. "I know."

Minerva smiled. "Just give her a little time to make sense of things."

Ron caught her gaze. And for the first time that day, Minerva saw a flicker of genuine hope in his expression.

One hour later, an exhausted Minerva bid an equally exhausted Ron goodbye. She watched his retreating form from her doorway for a long while, biting her lip. Then, with a sigh, she returned to her armchair and took a seat, coughing softly.

Suddenly, she noticed something rather odd out of the corner of her eye; she turned to look.

She gasped.

Her tartan handkerchief, rescued and restored to its original condition, was neatly folded at the edge of the coffee table. And, pinned to the top, was a scrap of parchment, as well as a photograph.

She first picked up the note, eyes widening:

_Dear Minerva,  
><em>_Thank you so much for everything. If you will, please do come by St.  
>Mungo's sometime this week to see your new godson, Hugo Weasley.<br>__-Ron_

Minerva covered her mouth with her hand. Then, with quivering fingers, she picked up the photograph. She immediately felt tears spring to her eyes.

Enclosed within a tangle of blue blankets, a tuft of curly red hair was peeking out of the edge of the frame. The little pink face yawned, and blinked his beautiful brown eyes, until they fixed themselves directly on Minerva's.

She smiled, tears spilling over.

_7 February 2008_

_Roxanne Morgan Weasley_

"How about Oliver?"

George frowned, rubbing his eyes and leaning back against the headboard of the bed. "I dunno…I suppose."

Angelina sighed in frustration, swatting her husband's shoulder. "You _suppose_, George? This is our daughter's godfather we're talking about!"

"I know, I know," George sighed. "All right, let me see that list."

He reached over and extracted the little piece of paper—a list of potential godfathers—from Angelina's fingers, squinting at it in an extremely exaggerated manner; Angelina rolled her eyes. But when after several loud '_Hmm_'s and '_Ah_'s from her husband, George had produced absolutely no worthwhile responses, whatsoever, Angelina lost her patience.

"George Weasley!"

George laughed.

Angelina glared at him, snatching the list back. "All right, since you _clearly_ don't seem to care, I'll write Katie and Oliver tomorrow to tell them—"

"No—now, wait a moment," George interrupted, frowning. "When did I agree to Katie as a godmother?"

Angelina stared at her husband. "We agreed on Alicia as Fred's godmother and Katie as our second child's _years_ ago, George, even before Fred was born."

"Oh."

Angelina raised her eyebrows. "Is something the matter?"

"No, not really."

Angelina regarded George with a mixture of worry and suspicion, her eyebrows arching further. "Are you sure?"

George bit his lip. "It's nothing…it's just..." he sighed, shrugging. "Well, I was sort of thinking that we could make Verity godmother."

Angelina's eyebrows were in danger of disappearing into her hair. "Verity?" she asked slowly. "I…I never got the feeling that you two were particularly close."

"We aren't," George said simply. "I mean, she's an excellent employee and she's nice enough, but we've never been best pals or anything. She was always closer to Fred…and now, Ron."

Angelina narrowed her eyes. "George, we don't name people godparents for being _excellent employees_ or _nice enough_."

George rolled his eyes. "Can you let me finish?"

Angelina pursed her lips.

"It was the July after the war," George began.

There was a pause, and Angelina looked up, frowning. George was staring steadfastly down at his hands, suddenly expressionless.

"It…" George swallowed. "It wasn't a good time. I hadn't seen any of my family in weeks. I'd stopped writing. I'd stopped visiting. I'd closed the shop indefinitely, and I was living mostly off of cold leftovers—and…Firewhiskey."

Angelina closed her eyes.

"This was a few weeks before _we_ ran into each other in Diagon Alley," George told Angelina softly, and she nodded numbly, eyes still shut. "At this point…I was avoiding confrontation—thoroughly.

"And I was doing a fantastic job," George continued bitterly. "Until, this one time, I was spending a really late night at a pub in Tinworth…and Verity tracked me down."

Angelina finally opened her eyes, surprised.

"I can't remember exactly what happened," George admitted ashamedly. "I think we got into a pretty bad argument because the barman threw us out. She was crying, and yelling, and I—I was drunk, so I was…obviously, I was yelling back at her.

"One second, she was telling me how sorry she was about F-Fred, and the next second, she was yelling at me for not getting things together and reopening Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. She blamed me," George said bluntly. "I had put her out of a job." A dull pause. "And she was right to be angry."

Angelina opened her mouth, but then closed it again. She was completely speechless.

"When I woke up the next morning, curled up under some bench in the middle of Cornwall, I was too hung over to piece anything together from the previous night. I ended up pegging everything as some horrible nightmare. But I felt guilty for something, even though I couldn't figure out exactly what it was." George caught Angelina's gaze, brushing her hand gently. "Ange, Verity's the reason I didn't make a run for it when you and I bumped into each other in Diagon Alley. If it had been a few weeks earlier, I would've probably made an excuse not to talk to you."

Angelina gripped George's wrist very tightly, feeling her heart constrict in the most painful way. "George Weasley," she croaked, as her eyes stung with frustrated tears. "You are the bane of my existence, I swear to Merlin." But she only half-meant it.

George gave a strangled laugh, flinging an arm around his wife's shoulders and pulling her closer to him. Then, he rested one hand on her rotund stomach.

Their daughter was due in mid-March and Angelina was all nerves—as she always was whenever she was faced with an impending deadline, work-related or otherwise. Sighing, Angelina placed her hand on top of George's, linking their fingers together.

She was going to be all right. She was going to be _fine_, so long as George was there with her.

"So," Angelina murmured, after several minutes of silence. George lifted his head from her shoulder, raising his eyebrows questioningly. "Verity and Oliver?"

George snorted with laughter and even Angelina couldn't resist a giggle; the combination was laughable. Oliver—loudmouthed, confident, impatient, Quidditch-obsessed Oliver Wood—was everything that Verity Finch-Fletchley, in all of her even-tempered and easygoing charisma, was not.

"Good luck, baby," George whispered, patting Angelina's stomach gently.

Angelina shook her head, smiling.

_29 November 2009_

_Lucy Ginevra Weasley_

Percy watched his younger brother intently as George knelt down in front of the tiny pink bassinet, smiling down at its tiny occupant. It was hard to believe that this was the same man who, just over ten years ago, had spent his nights in the gloomy shadows of the shiftiest Wizarding pubs. The same man who, just over ten years ago, refused to speak to Percy because he blamed him, blatantly and unforgivingly, for the loss of his twin brother. The same man who, just over ten years ago, had estranged himself from his entire family—no letters, no visits, and absolutely no explanation.

And now, here he was, standing in Percy's sitting room and cooing down at his niece, Lucy, the newest addition to the Weasley family.

The world certainly worked in funny ways, Percy decided.

"Merlin," breathed George, gazing down at his newborn niece with a wondrous expression on his face. He looked up at Percy, grinning. "She's something, all right."

Percy beamed. "We think she'll keep Molly on her toes."

"I don't doubt it," George laughed, gently brushing Lucy's rosy cheek. Then, he sighed wearily, climbing to his feet. "Well, I'd better head home. Fred's running a temperature—"

"George?" Percy interjected quietly.

George met his gaze, frowning. "Yeah?"

Percy stared at him, a million words racing each other through his head. How did someone address years and years of skating around a touch subject? How did two brothers reconcile something that was so complex that it couldn't even simply be called a misunderstanding?

"I want you to be Lucy's godfather."

George opened his mouth to answer, but no words came out. Something seemed to have locked in his jaw.

Out of all of the Weasley children, George was the only one who wasn't already godfather to at least one of his siblings' children. Many years ago, Percy had once overheard a private conversation between George and Ron in the backroom of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes during which George had confessed, in a voice so numb that it had made Percy's hair stand on end, that he didn't expect any of his siblings to choose him. Not after everything.

But Percy couldn't imagine a world where George wasn't godfather to his child. George was everything Lucy needed in a godfather, Percy knew. He would be a doting uncle, a teasing friend, and a fiercely loyal confidant. After all, he had spent the last ten years proving it.

Percy had always known George's eyes were blue in color. But, in that moment—in that one moment when he became something to Lucy that he had never dreamed he could be, his eyes gleamed so brilliantly that they were something else, altogether.


	3. Louis, Lily

The third time was the hardest. It truly was the last time.

For everyone.

_20 April 2003_

_Louis William Weasley_

"_Bonjour, Mila_," Fleur chirped as she sat down at her parents' kitchen counter for breakfast, balancing a platter of freshly cut fruit in her slender hands.

Émilie d'Aramitz, the Delacours' long-time housekeeper, looked up from the garden salad she was tossing. She raised her eyebrows, looking amused. "Someone is very happy this morning," Émilie noted in French. "Good news?"

Fleur laughed, shrugging her shoulders as she popped a strawberry into her mouth. "Am I not allowed to be happy for no reason?"

Émilie shook her head, smiling. "Everyone keeps telling your Maman and me how beautiful and grown-up you have become, but I can't look at you without seeing the six-year-old brat who used to run around the house, whipping everyone with her long hair."

Fleur blushed, giggling. "Mila, you must keep those stories to yourself. Bill can never hear such things."

"I will make no promises," Émilie chuckled, as she flicked her wand at the glass salad bowl, causing it to hover about five inches in the air and shift towards the other end of the kitchen, to join the other delicacies she had prepared for lunch. Then, she dusted off her hands and moved to the sink to wash her hands. "Where is Bill? I haven't seen him today."

"He went with Papa and the girls to see the new building," Fleur said. "And Maman went shopping, so it's just you and me for this afternoon, I guess."

"Oh, no," Émilie feigned horror, clutching a hand to her chest. "All alone in the house with _you_? Don't scare me!"

Fleur rolled her eyes. "You're as sharp as always, aren't you, Mila?"

Émilie winked at Fleur, before flicking her wand at the stove, which crackled to life. Humming softly, she began ladling vegetables into the stew she was making. Fleur watched her closely, twirling a cherry between her fingers. For as long as Fleur could remember, Émilie—or, _Mila_, as Fleur had rechristened her—had been a permanent fixture behind the Delacours' kitchen counter. Apolline, for all her warmth and motherly instincts, could never cook to save her life. And very quickly, Émilie had become part of the family. She smiled up from the myriad photographs on the mantel. Her perfume wafted through the deepest corners of the Delacour mansion. Her laugh trilled through the aisles of the family's sprawling garden. Émilie had been the first one to visit Fleur in her dingy little apartment across from Gringotts in Diagon Alley. She had been the first to know about Fleur's plans to marry Bill. She had been one of Fleur's closest confidant for years. She had been nothing short of a second mother. And Fleur couldn't imagine her life without her.

A few months ago, during Christmastime at the Delacours' mansion, Fleur had been absentmindedly shuffling through the disorganized stack of letters and documents Émilie kept on the corner of the kitchen counter when she had caught sight of a rather odd red envelope with a seal that Fleur didn't recognize. Casting a furtive glance around, Fleur had quietly slipped the envelope open and taken out the piece of parchment inside. It was a summary of the results of various medical tests, taken at _L'Hôpital de Bonaccord_. Fleur's eyes widened as she read through the results.

Émilie was ill.

Not seriously, nor chronically. But there was a definite dip in her stats. And the more Fleur watched Émilie flit around the house and the garden after that moment, carrying about her usual tasks, the more she began to notice the tired lines around her eyes. The way she winced every time she got up from a seat. The way her fingers trembled ever-so-slightly when she tried to write with a quill.

Snap.

Snap. Snap. _Snap_.

Fleur jumped in her seat, blinking rapidly. Émilie's fingers were now very close to her face.

"Close your mouth," Émilie advised jokingly. "You will catch flies."

Fleur forced a smile, biting her lip as Émilie took her apron off and hung it on the hook on the pantry door. "I think I will go freshen up before your parents come home. Lunch is on the table. Feel free to—"

"I'm pregnant."

Émilie stopped short, mouth falling open. "_Fleur_!"

"I'm sorry," Fleur smiled weakly. "I had to tell someone! It was driving me insane!"

"Oh, _ma chérie_," Émilie laughed, rushing forward and hugging Fleur. "_Félicitations_!_ Quelle merveille_!"

Fleur giggled nervously, throwing her arms around Émilie. She couldn't remember the last time she had seen Émilie looking so energetic. "Thank you for everything, Mila," Fleur murmured, hugging the other woman tightly. "You will be an amazing godmother."

_17 August 2008_

_Lily Luna Potter_

So far, Peru was not turning out to be Luna's favorite country. Normally, Luna didn't mind the heat. It was an expectation of being a naturalist; heat was an obstacle she no longer quite minded. But this was a different kind of heat. It made her feel sticky. Luna didn't enjoy feeling sticky.

Casually flicking a rather large and prickly spider off of her elbow, Luna followed Rolf through the overgrown thicket, humming under her breath. If there was any reason to put her own discomfort on the backburner and stick out the rest of the month in Peru, it was for Rolf, who seemed to love the country with a passion. He had made a great deal of progress in his investigation of the Tarapoto Tree Sprite and Luna could not bear to be the one to stand in the way of that. After all, she and Rolf were partners. She owed it to him.

Sighing in relief, Luna side-stepped the familiar slippery, moss-covered boulder which marked the front door to the cabin which she and Rolf had rented on the banks of the Ucayili River. She was, at the very least, glad to be back home.

"There's a letter for you, Luna," Rolf chirped, pointing to the scroll of parchment that was lying on the cabin's small kitchen table.

Luna frowned, picking up the scroll and untying the little pink ribbon that held it closed. Smoothing out the parchment, she read:

_Dearest Luna,_

_Words can't explain how much I miss you. Sorry this letter is so short, but my abdomen is still very sore and I'm on about thirteen post-natal potions right now, so I'm feeling a little loopy._

_I had to write you immediately, though. Harry and I are thrilled to announce the arrival of our third (and final!) child, Lily Luna Potter. Her middle name is Luna because we want her to know that her godmother will always be with her, even if she is actually halfway across the globe, searching for Pimple-Corned Frumpsacks._

Luna laughed out loud, clapping a hand to her mouth, as she felt tears burn the corners.

_I love you. So much. Come home soon and meet your goddaughter._

_Hugs and kisses,  
>Ginny<em>

Smiling gently, Luna tucked the letter into her cloak. She glanced across the room at Rolf, who was getting ready for bed. Then, she turned to stare out the window. The sun was halfway past the horizon, causing the sky to appear a bright shade of red—like the color of Ginny's hair. Perhaps the color of Lily's, too.

Luna blinked.

Peru wasn't the worst country she had ever visited, after all.


End file.
